Weak
by Uluru2064
Summary: Hermione reflects on her existence in a warring world.


Because I am weak.

Or because there is little left.

Because the innocence the Order has vowed to protect is little more than an illusion; something they've created to give them hope . . . something worth fighting for.

But innocence was lost long ago. The void left by its absence is apparent on the haunted faces of every person that shuffles the halls of this school, which now serves as a makeshift fortress protecting us from the evil lurking outside its walls.

The efforts of the Order are made in vain. What they seek to protect us from, the fear and despair, seeped past the protection of the thick stone walls long ago.

Deep down they know that the end of the war will not bring back the purity of our childhood; that the anguish of the loss of our classmates and mentors is not soothed by the fall of one more Death Eater.

And they are right.

Two years ago I would have considered the fall of one more dark wizard to mean the advancement of the Order and, ultimately, the end of the war. But that was two years, twelve dark encounters, and seventeen fallen friends ago.

Times have changed. I have changed.

In an ideal world, once good prevails, peace and tranquility return to the world and all is again well.

But with peace or without it, the image of the pale, lifeless faces of Cedric, Tonks, Charlie, and my parents will remain burned into my mind forever. No strategic victory will rid me of that. Nothing ever will.

I've stopped daydreaming of victory. My faith in the eventual return of peace and tranquility has been exchanged for the hope of one more day of survival. The dream of the restoration of civilization as I remember it now exists on much the same page as my belief in dragons and wizards once did . . . in that of a fairy tale.

The spark that flared with each of the Order's triumphs has faded and died. I have shed my last tear. I no longer feel outrage, compassion or grief.

I feel nothing.

Have I given up? No. I never will.

I would know no higher honor than to stand alongside the Order and win this war. But I no longer fantasize about returning to 'normal life' once this is over. Nothing will ever be like it was.

Yet, my uncertainty of the future is not enough to halt my perseverance. I've continued to spend long hours in the library translating and analyzing the reconnaissance intelligence you bring back from the Order's outposts daily.

It is at these times, when you arrive from the field to debrief, that I am reminded of the true cost of war.

At the sound of your voice, I look up from the reams of parchment and stacks of books surrounding me. The delivery of your report is brief; your tone is monotonous and efficient. Like me, you have learned not to let news of victories and rumors of survival build false hope. Like me, you've resigned to feel nothing.

Your duties as an Order courier have hardened you, hallowed you. The youthful fleshiness of your features gave way to taut lines of skill and definition long ago. Yet, the strength of your body is belied by the weakness of your spirit. It makes me sick to see you; to see your eighteen year-old frame burdened with the weight of a warring world.

You were so full of life once. Too full, I often thought: skiving off classes, sneaking Ogden's into your dorm for a little weekend revelry, saving every last cent you could for a newer, faster broom.

You spent your savings just two weeks ago . . . to help your parents hold a proper funeral for your brother.

This is our existence

Your debriefing has concluded. Your eyes meet mine before you depart on another assignment. We exchange a telling look; you are weak too.

And that is why we are here, hours later, in the far corner of a deserted classroom. The stubble on your chin scrapes across my collarbone as your hands yank at the fasteners of my button-down shirt. My fingers lace through your hair, clutching you closer to me as I impatiently tug at your already loosened belt.

Here there is no war.

The desperation in our movements is tangible; the barriers that separate us are intolerable. In another life it would appear as if we were racing to the finish, and yet the actual race is away from the start . . . away from what our lives have become. It is here, in the abandoned corridors and dark classrooms, that all that is our empty existence momentarily disappears.

Here, there is neither space nor time for the trite feelings of love and lust. Between the coarse material or your trousers and the bare skin of my thighs, there is room for only one thing.

Here, and only here, there is peace.

The words you whisper into my skin as I straddle your thighs are unintelligible. Pleas, prayers, or promises, I'll never know. Whatever your words, I know what they represent.

I clutch desperately at your hair with one hand as I grip your bare shoulder with the other. Your skin is hot, chasing out the chill that always haunts my body, but for these moments we share. Your calloused hands find my hips and urge me to move faster above you.

You reach up with both hands to push away the curls that have fallen and partially hidden my face. I pull away. I don't want you to see me, to watch me. I don't want you to see my desperation. I don't want to know how badly I need this, that it is the only thing keeping my soul alive. I need you to believe I'm stronger than that.

You need to believe it too. Your hands retreat and splay wide on my hips instead, bringing me down harder on top of you. You're eyes are closed. I know you're getting close.

"Tell me," you rasp.

It's our only indulgence. A moment's worth of passion in a life entirely void; our implicit acknowledgment of the havoc wreaked on our lives, of the evil seeping into our souls.

I lean into you, bring my mouth close to your ear so that I can whisper the words we need to hear.

You groan in release as I move frantically above you. A few more seconds and the world comes apart and I feel it too . . . the taste of life without war.

It is the only thing we allow ourselves to feel. It's painfully brief, but it's worth so much.

Worth the lies we tell others, the secrets we tell no one, and the heavy weight of guilt we bear together.

All this, because we are weak.


End file.
